


Let It Die

by shenyun5000



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Crests (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), EXTREME LORE FUCKERY, Gen, Modern AU, Nonbinary My Unit | Byleth, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pop Culture, The Wicked + The Divine AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-06-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:41:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24441526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shenyun5000/pseuds/shenyun5000
Summary: Every ninety years, the Crests of the Elites incarnate as humans. They are loved. They are hated. In two years they'll be dead. The year is 2014. Once again, they return.A "The Wicked + The Divine" AU set in a metropolitan Garreg Mach. The Crest-bearing children of the game's main cast are now hilariously obnoxious pop stars. Lots of FE3H lore fuckery happens.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Edelgard von Hresvelg/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 17
Kudos: 18





	1. I Am A God

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! Thank you for reading this intro note. I was hoping you'd do that. This is my first time doing a fic project. Lit-style writing is something I rarely do and I don't think I've ever???? Actually for real written fanfiction before? There's a first for everything, whoops!
> 
> This AU is based on my favorite Image comic "The Wicked + The Divine" by Kieron Gillen and Jamie McKelvie. If you've read it before, you know where this story goes! If not, it's an iconic read and I'll tell you to check it out and PLEASE support your local comic book stores if you can.
> 
> This series contains scenes that have physical violence, gun violence, death, and gore. Most of all, this story has a LOTSSSS of LORE FUCKERY, mostly on FE3H's end so I'm sorry I'm ruining the sanctity of Fodlanic history and folklore for you. There's some more notes about this AU waiting for you at the end.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"In a French-ass restaurant_   
>  _Hurry up with my damn croissants"_
> 
> \- Kanye West

ETHEREAL MOON, 1923.

“For so it must be.”

She places the final skull on the table, counting eight unoccupied seats. The fringe of her golden headdress drapes over her eyes-- the tears rolling down her cheeks being obscured and outshined by glitz against candlelight. She lifts her head to address the four left seated but words barely escape her mouth at the sight of them. Anxious. Elbows buried into the hardwood. Gazes traveling nowhere.

“It is time for me to go, my children,” she turns, golden beads and baubles waving past her seafoam green hair, “I love you. I will miss you.” She takes the exit through the manor’s garden, her cloak trailing and slipping past the frame until the doors fall back and slam shut. The click of the lock is loud enough to make at least one of them rattle in their seat.

“Shall we toast?” he reaches for his wine chalice, hands still trembling from the sound of the door lock. “To life. What’s left of it.”

“Gloucester.” The woman across addressed him so sternly it was more than enough to vouch for a _“No”_. One hand held her chin up and the other tapped a rhythm, glossy nail finish against mahogany.

“One farewell and we’re done,” another man responded, furrowed brow pinching at his eyes. His stare is settled on the wine swirling in the other man’s goblet.

“We’re never done,” Gloucester adds, finishing his drink. There’s no response from the fourth person at the table: a young child, shifting from leg to leg against the cushion of her seat. Her hand lifts, pointing in the direction of the person to her right with her thumb, middle finger resting underneath it at the joint. The rest of the table follows, every look now fixed intently.

“One.”

“Two.”

“Three.”

“Four.”

A single simultaneous snap brings the manor to combust, sending the debris of windows and walls outwards into the yard. The flames engulf everything, embers encroaching into the garden and catching every flower and hedge sculpture in sight. Here outside, the woman in gold doesn’t flinch at the explosion, only stepping back far enough to watch the building crumble in safety. She closes her eyes now; there are no more tears. There is no more life left here. Everything is gone and will be started anew once more.

  
  


GUARDIAN MOON, 2014.

There are much better stage venues in Garreg Mach than this hovel. There’s a sports arena downtown, with enough bleachers to house everyone without breaking building occupancy rules. There’s a theatre a few blocks up and one avenue over from that arena too, with gold-trimmed plush velvet seats to sink into for hours on end. It’s an absolute wonder why an actual, literal _god_ (one not known for particularly shying away from extravagance, especially!) would ever decide to have a show in some small South Garreg substreet hall. The queue upstairs is making a valiant collective push past security in hopes of catching a tiny glimpse of the stage. The aged wooden floors are slick with sweat, piss, and spilled beer-- its panels creaking just enough to cause concern if anyone could even hear it over the music.

Actually, it’s impressive if you’re even able to hear music over the crowd, indoors and out. Goneril puts up a great act, microphone grasped by the talons of her acrylic nails. She spits one verse and the hip cotton sweatsuit she stepped on outstage with moments ago now vanishes into bright glitter, trailing in the air and falling across the stage to reveal her new outfit: a red satin dress encrusted in jeweled glamour, cut deep enough to generously flaunt her cleavage. Squint over the strobes and you can see a handful of people in the crowd falling to their knees in response.

This is no stage trick. This is _magic_ and she is owning it. Every word she utters is magic. Nobody can quite make out what she’s rapping about. It doesn’t matter. It means everything. There’s heat oozing from the speakers, snaking its way from the stage into the crowd, pooling into the heads and hearts of every single person here and there, consciously and unconsciously. Goneril is a pop star-- she has a hold on all of them and she’s basking in the attention.

Backstage is a perfect place to be for Byleth Eisner: never one for crowds or even anything above 80-something decibels loud, but always one for music that grabs a hold on you. They tap their boots on the green room floors, humming along wherever the audible bassline goes. They pull back the ripped and nibbled sleeves of their old coat to check for the time. They watch the minutes roll up until PM turns into AM and the roaring fun and excitement is quelled gently by the growing night. There's work to be done later.

x

  
  


Byleth stops staring at their boots for one second and suddenly they’re in a city penthouse boxed in by floor-to-ceiling glass windows. There’s a party going on here and someone knew to invite just enough people to fill every room, but the crowd murmur sits at an eerily comfortable listening level over the cocktail music. It’s no music concert but it’s still adequately busy enough to seem very important.

To Byleth’s right is Edelgard Hresvelg, completely submerged in a clipboard stack of documents-- part of her own graduate school thesis in the works. Byleth has been supervising her work for the duration of this project for countless moons and she has been nothing less than tirelessly dedicated. She can’t possibly be told to slow down. Her air of authority cuts like a blade. She needs only to utter one _“Caspar. Linhardt._ ” and her microphones will be plugged in and film will be rolling (one’s much more eager to please than the other but the job gets done in record time every time anyways).

Seated across from her is Goneril, draining the hell out of a Capri-Sun juice pouch until it’s nothing but a lifeless husk to be blown back up again. Her other hand is occupied, twirling a pigtail full of pink locks against her fingers. She’s back in the grey cotton sweatsuit she came out on stage in merely a few hours ago, somehow making it look devilishly stylish on her alone and laughably mediocre on anyone else who’d wear this look. She looks at the other end of the couch smiling, expecting a smile back before returning her gaze to her smartphone resting comfortably on her thigh.

And he responds, adding a playful kiss in the air for the fun of it in the process. This is Riegan: most likely to leave you catatonically starstruck with a single glance. Everyone feels his energy: it’s radiantly… easy. He’s incredibly far from being the most crystal clear guy in the world and information regarding anything about him, pre-divinity and even right now, is few and far but he sure does have this uncanny ability to make you drop your shoulders, sink into your seat, and trust that he knows what’s best for you. Nobody knows if that’s one of his god-powers or just his natural-born personality. It could be both.

He lounges, crocodile shoe over crocodile shoe, body melting into the lining of his bright yellow leather jacket as he turns to Byleth, “Hope the show was as fun for you as it was for _Princess Papers_ over here, Professor.” Edelgard was kind enough to give a response: one sharp exhale, indeterminately either a fraction of a laugh or a stifled “ugh”. He’s right. It sure was _fun_. She already spent all night taping the concert only to remember that Linhardt accidentally set the switch that made the camera record from an internal microphone instead of an external microphone for half of the night.

“Juggling that mess of a film crew backstage away from the show seemed like fun enough,” said another voice, walking in from around the corner with a ribbed glass bottle of the deepest, richest cognac anyone in this building has ever seen (Caspar pouts at his comment from behind the camera). He sets it down on the low table in front of all of them, but nobody else pours themselves a drink. This is Gloucester, in his own damn penthouse apartment: dressed to impress in a silk flared jumpsuit so astonishingly, gracefully, perfectly purple that it would make a counterpart jumpsuit in the brightest shade of white possible look impure in comparison. His getup compliments his (tastefully) choppy purple hair seamlessly. This man embodies the extravagance that pop-star godhood would entail. He shares a sliver of a grin ( _“of the shit eating kind”_ , Riegan describes it as on a regular basis to anyone who’d listen) and sits, simply snapping his fingers to conjure the little flare of fire that he needs to light his cigarette. _Magic_.

He continues, “But _this_ is more fun, is it not? Drinks and questions with three of the Elites? There’s many fans out there who would kill for the privilege of an evening like this.” Smoke circles the air. Looks like Gloucester picked and chose his guests wisely-- all of them have the decency to leave the group at a distance to complete this interview, either out of reverence or out of fear that it’s not worth getting into a scuffle with a god over some personal space.

“I know there is,” Edelgard doesn’t skip a beat. Here we go. “Is this what you all intend to be doing for the next two years? What happens after godhood?”

“Poooooffff. Gone,” Goneril chimes, eyes not leaving her screen.

“We’ll be dead,” Riegan puts it more bluntly, shrugging as much as he could while he’s sinking into. His mouth smiles. The rest of his face doesn’t seem to follow suit.

“Said so casually, like you’ll just be slipping away from the spotlight like every other burnout,” Edelgard doesn’t mince her words. Her voice stays at a low rumble. “Do any of you actually believe it? You’re all suspiciously calm for a group of people about to drop dead in T-minus twenty-something months.”

“Nobody lives forever anyways. Being immortal does not exempt us from the process of death and decay. Until that day comes for each one of us, we will live. Grow. Engage. Indulge. Whatever.” Gloucester is incredibly eager to answer on behalf of the group.

“ _Lorenz Hellman_ ,” Edelgard drops his name like it’s a bombshell. Gloucester doesn’t rush to correct her. “You’ll be dead before you ever hit 26.”

“And until then I will be a god. I will be an artist. The masses are mine to enrapture.” Gloucester’s purple lipstick leaves marks on his glass as he sips.

“Then tell me how you do that. The hold that you all have over your audiences.”

“It’s _magic_.”

“It’s mass hysteria. It’s not a superpower. It’s probably people hopped up on drugs. It happened during the Recurrence in the 20’s. There’s evidence.”

“Haven’t you felt it?”

“I’ve been to shows from all of you. I feel nothing.”

Riegan chuckles from the couch. “Oof! Tough critic!”

“And I am certain I won’t ever feel anything,” Edelgard contin--

\--“Get down.” Another voice cuts through the conversation. All heads turn to see Byleth, rising out of their seat and pointing at Gloucester’s chair.

“Huh?” Goneril puts her phone down.

“ _Get down._ ” Byleth repeats, suddenly pulling Edelgard down to the floor and gesturing for her film crew to do the same. The gods follow Byleth’s line of sight to see two red dots: one making its way up Gloucester’s nape and the other zooming past the rest of the couch. Riegan grabs Goneril aside and gathers everyone behind the furniture the moment shots enter the penthouse. The floor-to-ceiling glass shatters, countless bullets flying by grazing nothing but the furniture and interior walls. Riegan, still occupied assembling his huddle, peeks his eyes over the cushions to assess the damage in between rounds. There’s no blood so far. Everything on the floor right now is shattered glass. Two shadowy figures peer out from the rooftop of the building across, laser sights now gathering on Gloucester who only smirks in response. The bullets hit their mark from afar but the noise of gunfire is still much too sharp for anyone’s comfort. Each shot bounces back from the (now righteously invincible) purple jumpsuit, doing no damage to anyone but the penthouse floor polish.

“Everyone okay?” Riegan asks, eyeing the dogpile in front of him thoroughly. It doesn’t seem like any shots were lucky enough to strike back here. Good so far. “Don’t do anything unnecessary, please,” he turns to Gloucester at the window, like he’s ever actually going to heed his advice. He won’t. It’s already happening. He rolls his eyes.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” Gloucester doesn’t even bother responding to Riegan, going right to the source of the problem one building away. He brings his heels to the window frame, flicks his cigarette butt away, and outstretches both of his hands to make one resounding _*snap*_ and it’s the end of the show. The guns drop. Two heads explode in a phantasmagoria of light and blood. Flesh and bone scatter everywhere like fireworks. The bodies continue to flame, dropping over the rooftops onto the streets below. Everyone saw this.

“Feeling anything now?” Gloucester turns to Edelgard, sneering.

He complies confidently and calmly when the police show up and cuff him at the end of the night.

x

  
  


That purple jumpsuit has made its glorious return, flaring and glistening just as soundly as ever. It’s the loudest thing in this courtroom. Louder than Gloucester himself.

“Two headless torsos take a tumble down 40 stories and all the court can muster for an answer is the sound of my fingers clicking,” the grin on his face makes some eyes sore. “So then it’s nothing science can explain, Your Honor. It must have been divine intervention.”

“Mr. Hellman--”

“ _Gloucester_ ,” He steps in with a bite. “You won’t find anything. A murder weapon. An explanation. A suitable verdict.”

“--Continue with your conjecture and you’ll be held in contempt of the court.”

“Will I now?” Gloucester raises his hand. His middle finger meets his thumb. Riegan and Goneril whip around to his stand immediately and desperately try to meet his eyes. Byleth and Edelgard continue watching this unfold from the edge of their seats.

*click*

A second of silence passes. The judge’s head bursts into a mixture of all parts flesh and flame. Blood and other bits rain everywhere like a burst of confetti. While everyone’s attention is turned to the gore splatter at the front of the room, Byleth turns to Gloucester, jumping back with his hands against his face, eyes shocked enough to bulge out of their sockets. There is absolutely no devilish smirk to be found.

“That wasn’t me!” he cries over and over again. Of course it wasn’t. If it was him, he wouldn’t be putting up a fight against the guards rushing in to restrain his hands and arms. Against the cacophony of the room he kicks and screams, wiggling free of the entourage dragging him out of the room for just one moment so he could address his company. They have his full attention. His eyes meet Riegan’s before they meet the rest of them.

“Get Rhea. Get Rhea, please,” he manages to huff out before he’s escorted out of the court, cuffed by his wrists and taken to god-knows-where.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK! Some other notes: Thank you to Rikk (@ricketyrikk on twitter) for workshopping this AU with me as well as beta reading/co-writing my stuff (I'm sorry) and designing some of the cool outfits you're gonna see all throughout this. Follow both of us (I'm @shenyun5000) on Twitter because we're also artists and there's art that goes with this fic. I'll be gathering it all into a Twitter moment soon so you don't miss it.
> 
> This will not be a 1:1 scale AU, I found a lot of analogs hard to plug and work into the story and I might not me able to work and juggle every single character into this story so please forgive me if your fav isn't here or isn't in the spotlight! I've got pages and pages of notes done just to make sure I'm not flying by the seat of my pants writing this fic. The story outline is almost finished and I think we're going to be up to at least 14 chapters? Possibly one or two more so I'll just leave that unspecified. No guarantees but I hope I can follow through to the end! Idk if I'm updating on a weekly or biweekly basis but rest assured that Ch 2 is ready and raring to go while I'm working on the next few chapters.


	2. Come Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"What I'm supposed to do now?_   
>  _You talkin' all that shit, now come on_   
>  _You gonna have to back it up"_
> 
> \- Anderson .Paak

HORSEBOW MOON, 2013.

The sun set several hours ago but the Leicester heat is relentless as ever. The Hellman house is empty but there’s a cacophony going on inside: the air conditioner is running at full blast, the sound system in one room over is playing a vinyl of Rodger and Hammerstein’s greatest hits, the kettle on the stove pushes out a hearty whistle. Lorenz pours his lavender tea and sets his cup on the saucer at the sight of an unfamiliar figure in the garden. He steps closer to the window, squinting: moonlight bounces off her golden crown, her green hair falls over her shoulders. Her black velvet robe sweeps her shoes. People don’t usually dress like that for home break-ins around here but Lorenz approaches with caution. He quietly slides the door open, stepping out and turning on the porch light. Before he could even yell for her attention she turns her head and they meet, the woman’s eyes aglow as if she was under a spell.

Lorenz sees her face. It’s all he sees for what feels like an eternity. There’s no earth at his feet. He’s tumbling down, catching flames on his way. They scorch his flesh and fabric, but he is not in agony. Her voice is the only thing that echoes in his ears.

**“ YOU ARE ONE OF THE PANTHEON. YOU WILL BE LOVED, YOU WILL BE HATED. YOU WILL BE BRILLIANT. IN TWO YEARS, YOU WILL BE DEAD.”**

Ash falls from his fingertips. Her gaze intensifies just as the fires do.

**“BY ETERNAL FIRES, YOU ARE BIRTHED. NOBLE IS YOUR CAUSE. PLEASURE IS YOUR PRINCIPLE.”**

He stops falling and his knees hit dirt. Illuminated by garden lamps and the embers at his palms, his hair drapes over his ears and shines a deep violet hue. His body is embraced by a perfectly tailored dress suit: black satin subtly enveloped in purple floral embroidery. On his lapel, a rose blooms. The woman reaches for his hand.

“We meet again, Gloucester. I’ve missed you.”

  
  
  


GUARDIAN MOON, 2014.

“Riegan, I’m expecting good news this time.”

Gloucester sits in a cell unbothered and unphased. His thin, pale body now outfitted with a look that doesn’t exactly scream “imprisonment”: the fabrics of his violet silk shirt and slim grey slacks seem to hug and squeeze at his frame. Binding his wrists and fingers are a pair of uniquely crafted handcuffs made to keep his thumbs from reaching any of his other fingers. Following the sound of footsteps against concrete getting closer and closer, his digits playfully wiggle within their constraints.

“Ah, it’s you,” he smiles at the sight of Byleth stepping past the guards, taking position at the single chair seated across the plexiglass divider. Same familiar weathered overcoat, same clouded expression. The familiar sight is comforting. “To what do I owe this surprise?”

“Rhea.” Byleth puts it forth plainly. They pull a field recorder out from their pocket and press a button. Gloucester doesn’t give it another thought.

“Any word?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Would you like to meet her?” Gloucester proposes. Byleth nods. Affirmative. “I have an inkling of an idea that she doesn’t want to see me right now but I’m sure she’ll answer much more kindly to you. Ah, if only there was a way. If only.”

“Who is she?” Byleth leans in.

“I wish I had the right answer, Professor,” Gloucester continues, digressing, “I’ve read your papers, you know. You’ve done some excellent digging into the Recurrence. That girl Edelgard’s on the right track, too. I don’t think I can tell either of you anything new.”

“I mean, what is she to you? What is any of this to you?”

Gloucester leans back and chuckles. He’s much more willing to comply with the Professor’s questions. It beats getting grilled by Edelgard in his own damn house any day. “Twelves Crests corresponding to an Elite of yore. She shows up and gives them to young people. They become gods. They live. They die. They live again. Rhea is our mother, of sorts. She makes it happen. For her, I am grateful.”

“...How did it happen?”

“How it happens for everyone else, more or less,” Gloucester re-crosses his legs. “I thought I was alone one night at my father’s estate back in Leicester. I find a woman wearing a gaudy gold tiara and the moment that our eyes meet I’m freefalling face first into a ring of fire. From then on, she takes me in. She takes _us_ in. She cares for us, only lets the public eye see as much as we’re comfortable with. It’s wonderful, really.”

“And now?”

“I don’t know what happens now. This isn’t a mess she can clean up so easily, I’m afraid. For now, I am damned.” Gloucester’s chains rattle as he drops his palms to his lap.

  
  


x

  
  


“They’re not on speaking terms?” Edelgard asks as she walks down the avenue. Byleth trails behind, following her pace. The sidewalk is barely big enough for the both of them. “There’s got to be a way we can make a bunch of virtually untouchable people-- who refuse to even cooperate with themselves-- bring us to some mystery woman we know next-to-nothing about.”

“It’s ridiculous. Gloucester didn’t do it,” Byleth mutters.

“The gunmen or--”

“The judge. Of course. He’s really upset.”

“That throws a big, fat, supernatural wrench into my thesis but we’re onto something very interesting if any-- if not all of them have the magical ability to remotely snap someone’s head off and cover it up.” She paces faster. “They’ve got to be reconvening at their tower soon to figure out what to say to the public. That seems like the opportune moment to make them crack, if you’d like.”

“They don’t take walk-ins.”

“We’ll figure it out. Maybe we can take an axe to their door.” Past a barricade and down a flight of stairs they go, following the crowd descending into the deep, dark underbelly of the city’s transit system.

Everyone loves the Garreg Mach Transit Authority. Everyone also hates it. It’s rat infested. Underfunded and understaffed. Bruised and broken, yet somehow still beautiful. It’s all twisted like a barrel of snakes but the average citizen isn’t complaining when it’s possible to get absolutely anywhere in Garreg Mach anytime for just a flat rate of 300G.

“Just don’t touch the third rail,” Byleth says to comfort Edelgard stumbling in the dark, spoken with such confidence as if they’ve hopped off a platform and ran down a set of tracks into the tunnels before. They probably have. They’re down here more than the average work commuter. Byleth’s encyclopedic knowledge of Garreg Mach’s tunnels has shaped them into somewhat of an amateur urban explorer. Not that it’s a bad thing at all beyond pushing the laws of trespassing here and there, but the views are rewarding in their own right. The light at the end of this tunnel leads to the abandoned station beneath the Officers Academy’s midtown campus. It’s a breathtaking collection of wide arcs, electric chandeliers, and mosaic tilings built before the era when trains started running through here. When the Academy made its permanent move uptown to the Church, this station became nothing more than a carelessly guarded exhibit for the museum now housed above it. The urbanites who find themselves here from time to time would leave their mark in spray paint, adding an extra layer of color to the sets of aged ceramic tile. The GMTA Museum hates it but they haven’t had the funding to fix it for years now. They probably won’t fix it. It is what it is now. It’s public art now.

But what’s out of place in this sight is the rows and rows of countertops and seats set up all across the tracks and platforms. This is weird. Edelgard could have sworn she got tickets for a Daphnel show and not a movie dinner or whatever this is. She slips an envelope out of her coat pocket (now taking a closer look at the tickets inside and noticing that the text on them that reads _“DAPHNEL’S GUERRILLA VARIETY HOUR FOR LACK OF A BETTER TITLE introducing a special guest”_ ) and leads Byleth to their seats. Daphnel has her generous share of popularity as the other Crest children do, but she has the luxury of having a following comfortably small enough to fit into new hip places. She doesn’t do stadiums. She does clubs. She does speakeasies. An abandoned train station isn’t what comes to mind but after some thought, it doesn’t seem like it’d be off the table at all. Nonetheless, her fans came out in full force as they always do, wearing her merch and praying that she’ll glance in their direction with a smile.

After a few minutes of waiting, the lights flicker off and a haze of stage smoke fills the air.

“HE IS THE BLOOD KNIGHT. THE KEEPER OF JUSTICE. HIS HEART LIES BENEATH A SHIELD OF BONE. IT CANNOT BREAK,” a voice booms out and fills the tunnels from the speakers suspended on the ceilings. No one can make out who it is. What steps out from the tunnels isn’t Daphnel-- it’s someone else entirely. His blue hair is held in a small ponytail. He wears a sukajan embroidered front and back with wolves; the imagery is so vivid and detailed that it almost seems to pop out and breathe life from the satin it rests upon. Held at the side of his ripped jeans is an exquisite piece: an ornate, illustrious scabbard housing the wrapped handle of a longsword.

“This is stupid as fuuuuuck,” he exhales, unsheathing his sword and striking the air in one fluid motion. Electricity pulses and glows from its blade, extending into the walls of the train station to create a dazzling light show.

“There’s no turning back, man” Daphnel makes her grand entrance from the shadows, riding in on a pale white horse (everyone in this station now ponders on how the fuck a horse got here) and emerging with a flock of doves flying forth. Her look tonight balances glamour and equestrian sport practicality, making for a look that’s just as handsome as all hell. Her lace-lined riding coat extends into a floor-length cape, all trimmed in loops of gold detail. At her side, a bright silver sword takes the place of her usual gig-worn electric bass. The horse whinnies and lifts itself when Daphnel holds her blade towards the mosaic ceiling.

“You wanted a show. You don’t sing. This is the only thing I could think of that you could possibly ever work with.” She valiantly refrains from adding _“fucker”_.

“It didn’t have to be fucking _Medieval Times_ , Ingrid,” the man with the sword says. Using her real name doesn’t cut as deep as he thinks it would. He taunts, slicing the smoke.

 _“Introducing Fraldarius, one of the Pantheon!”_ Daphnel shouts, filling the tunnels with echoes of her voice. The crowd cheers in response, lifting their fists up. Edelgard turns to Byleth and whispers _“holy fuck”_. Daphnel then snaps her fingers, using her divine powers to conjure forth rows of metal plates stacked reasonably high with roasted cornish hens, spiced potatoes, and tomato bisque. Each dish is laid out on the tables in front of every attendee. Byleth digs in without giving it much contemplation.

This is so fucking much.

Galatea steps down from her horse, striking at Fraldarius with her blade. He retaliates, sparks flying as he blocks her from below. Dodge and roll. They cross, they fall back. They dodge and roll again. Their duel continues on into the night, their movements gaining such traction and rhythm that it unmistakably resembles a dance of sorts. Is this performance lasting much longer than it needs to? It doesn’t feel that way. It’s captivating, but it isn’t holding Edelgard. She’s not sure if she thinks it’s dumb quite yet but she definitely wants it to be over soon.

The final beat in their song hits when Fraldarius has Daphnel pinned to the ground. She breaks her grip on her silver sword, letting it fall to the wayside. The electricity in the station pulses. Applause fills the tunnel air until it comes to a polite stop.

“Any last words?” Fraldarius asks as he holds her down. She rolls her eyes and chuckles. He’s such a drama queen. He’s not going to hurt her.

“Since you’re so kind enough to ask,” she responds while effortlessly breaking free of his grip and turning to the people, “I was wondering if anyone in the audience is celebrating a birthday today. Or a special occasion. Whatever works.”

Hands rise from the seats on the platform. There’s at least two birthdays, one _“my birthday was yesterday”_ , two anniversaries, and a single _“I skipped work to have a good time tonight”_. Daphnel snaps and brings cardstock crowns on top of all their heads.

“Thanks for coming out tonight, guys. Sorry this probably isn’t what Ticketmaster said was on the bill tonight but I hope it was something,” Daphnel wraps it up with the crowd, cheering positively in response. “Uh, there’s one more thing we’re doing before we step out.”

She turns to where Edelgard and Byleth are seated and looks them both straight in the eye. Fuck.

“I’ve been informed we have two special guests in the house tonight. We’d appreciate if a certain Byleth and Edelgard could make it down to the tracks where we are, that’d be great.” Daphnel beckons them to come forth. Byleth points at themself and tilts their head. Daphnel nods. Edelgard winces. So does Fraldarius if you look closely enough. The audience claps as they gather beneath the platform.

“We’re just passing along a message of gratitude. The Elites are grateful for both your contributions to the Pantheon from your academic field.” Daphnel projects her voice to reach the audience. Byleth gives a look of _“what did we do?”_ in Edelgard’s direction. She makes the same face in return.

Then Daphnel leans in for a whisper, “It’s about Gloucester. The rest of the Elites are worried about him but we heard you guys are working on a case for it, in a way. Whatever it is, we’re grateful. Take a knee for this next part and play along.” Byleth and Edelgard take a moment to digest that and they follow. Fraldarius steps in and brings the tip of his sword to Edelgard’s shoulder first.

“We dub thee Knights of the Pantheon,” Fraldarius says like he’s ready to go home.

“KNIGHTS OF THE PANTHEON!” The crowd responds to the call.

“It’s an honorary title. It means absolutely nothing!” Fraldarius shouts back.

“It really doesn’t!” Daphnel steps in.

Fraldarius taps the two’s shoulders before leaning in for one final whisper, “Goddess Tower at nine, tomorrow morning. You can come through but we’ll send a guy to get you. Be ready.” Before Edelgard can get up and hound him for answers, Fraldarius turns and casually salutes the crowd as they cheer him disappearing in a bolt of lightning. It’s over. No more glow. The station lights flicker back on. It’s time to get out before the GMTA causes a fuss about this.

“Wait, how did you get a horse down here?” Byleth reaches for Daphnel taking her mount.

Daphnel smiles, “I don’t know.” She takes off, galloping into the shade of the tunnel. A flock of white doves carry her away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Thanks for reading again. I can't believe there's a chapter two. I thought I'd have the third chapter done by now but it might be a bit of a wait for its arrival. If it's not here by next Friday, it'll be here by the next one.
> 
> Thanks to my co-writer/beta reader/AU workshopper [Rikk](https://twitter.com/ricketyrikk) for putting up with my bullshit again! My twitter handle's the same as my AO3 username so you can find me there too.
> 
> There's also a playlist I made while we were workshopping this AU and I've made it available for the public! [Click here for the Spotify link.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3rOqIB55VD8NAJlyZDR69e?si=LRk64WUSQQ-KhAPf4gsiEg) It's around 50-something tracks at the moment but it'll be updated frequently-ish.
> 
> It's a turbulent world out there! Hope you've been keeping safe and using your platforms to uplift and amplify Black voices.


	3. Patience Gets Us Nowhere Fast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"I want it all and nothing less_   
>  _I want it all, I want the best for you_   
>  _I'm telling you the truth"_
> 
> \- Capital Cities

GUARDIAN MOON, 2014.

  
  


Despite what it appears to be, Edelgard really hit the studio apartment jackpot here.

It hasn’t even been a full year since she moved into the Market District and she’s already managed to make a one-bedroom feel like it’s been lived in for a lifetime. What was once 270 square footage of empty parquet flooring has now become something much harder to traverse. Piles of books spill forth from full shelves. The kitchen counter can barely be seen underneath the piles of pots and knives strewn on top of it. Clothes are carelessly tossed around the bedroom floor if they’re not lucky enough to make it onto the office chair in the corner.

One can wonder how three people could possibly call the mess in apartment 5E home, but such a thought is of absolutely no concern to its residents. Being able to end every tiresome night of work by taking a very short commute home to her partners was all Edelgard ever really needed.

Through the morning sun pouring in, she opens a window and looks down at all the life down below. People come and go, walking their dogs and sifting through storefronts.

“You didn’t sleep last night,” Hubert steps out from the kitchen, warm mug in hand. He looks impeccable for someone who had just rolled out of bed and threw on a fleece robe some few minutes ago.

“Sorry,” Edelgard turns to him. “A lot has happened these past few days. I can’t bring myself to rest.”

“And that’s what has us worried,” Hubert carefully steps over a stack of textbooks to hand her the mug. He leans forward to leave a kiss on her forehead. “You can’t keep working like this. I insist you take a break.”

“I promise I’ll be in bed the moment I get home later.” She sips.

“And answer our texts, please.”

“You and Ferdinand are blowing up my phone. I’m sorry but I had to put you on silent for a bit.”

“We just wanted to know if you were safe doing... whatever it was you were doing last night. Breaking into an abandoned train station for an underground show, was it?”

“I was with the Professor. We were fine.”

Just then, the buzzer rings. It cuts through their conversation.

“Curious. Deliveries usually don’t arrive until the afternoon,” Hubert remarks. He joins Edelgard peering out the window to see who’s at the apartment entrance. There’s someone at the doorstep ringing the door intercom repeatedly.

Edelgard takes a closer look and nearly drops her mug at who she sees: there’s a large figure wearing a vintage ballcap and a foreman’s jacket. That’s a familiar sight.

“Fuck,” she says under her breath as she crosses the room to press a button. The door downstairs unlocks.

  
  


x

  
  


Blaiddyd never inherited the glam and decadence that the rest of the Elites have. The baseball hat he’s using to cover up his messy hair still smells like the thrift shop bin it was found in. He’s wearing the same black dress shirt he wore at his most recent show just a month ago, and it appears he hasn’t changed out of it since. Perhaps the most stylish thing on his person is a large pair of horn-rimmed glasses resting neatly against his brow, held together at one of its hinges with a piece of tape.

He drives a sunburnt pickup truck through the city traffic with Edelgard in the passenger seat and her film team sandwiched in the back. 

“It’s been a while, sorry I don’t really reach out.” Blaiddyd turns to Edelgard at a stop light, turning down the radio.

“It has,” Edelgard responds. “I don’t see any reason to apologize for it. You’ve been occupied with… work, I suppose. As have I.”

“Did my friends give you any trouble last night?” 

“They called us down to the stage and knighted us in front of the audience. It was embarrassing.”

“Oh gosh,” Blaiddyd winces. “I’m so sorry. I could have told them not to do that. I had no idea.”

“I think I would have appreciated something with less ceremony. A cryptic postcard in the mail would have been just fine.”

“Sorry everything’s so, uh, proxy-proxy with the Elites. I don’t know how to describe it but communication is sort of hard.”

“Really now.”

“You’ll know how it is when you’re in a room with all of them. That’s coming up.”

Edelgard only responds with a trilled exhale.

Blaiddyd continues with his foot on the gas, “Even, uh… Fraldarius and Daphnel. They were my friends before all this, actually. Something changed along the way.”

A beat of silence passes before Edelgard picks it back up.

“And would you blame divinity?” She asks. The tone of her voice loses a small bit of its edge.

Blaiddyd isn’t quite ready to give her an answer, let alone a satisfactory one. He keeps his eyes on the city traffic.

“I could. I want to, but it’s hard. I wonder if it’d be the same if we didn’t have to be gods.”

He says his piece and Edelgard wonders if there was any right answer to her question.

He follows, “I live with Fraldarius and Daphnel in the Underground. It’s for the better, I think. The physical space between us is endless down there.”

“The Underground? You live in a subway station?”

“Yes? Maybe? I don’t actually know? You’ve been there last night, right? It’s like a--”

“Like another dimension?” Edelgard asks, ever the skeptic. She would almost hate to admit it but she’s inclined to hear more.

“I guess? Space is really weird down there. The sensation… er, everything is weird. I think that’s how all of us are able to keep our distances. It’s not like we’re not talking or anything, though. We had to coordinate today somehow.”

“And how did you find all of us? Supernatural snooping?”

“Oh, no. I sent a DM to your crew over Instagram. Fun chat.”

Edelgard’s fists clench and she quickly turns around to Caspar in the back seat.

“You gave out my-- _our_ home addresses to Blaiddyd? Via Instagram?” She’s not the type to yell but the way she verbally shakes him down is still very much so intimidating.

“Actually it was Linhardt,” Caspar shifts the blame so he can go back to carefully pouring ketchup on his McDonald’s hash brown.

“Our home addresses.” Edelgard now twists around to Linhardt, who is dozing off on Byleth’s shoulder.

“Yeah, I sold us out. Whatever,” Linhardt pushes out a yawn before going back to sleep.

“You went to Linhardt instead of me?” Edelgard turns to the driver’s seat again.

Blaiddyd wants to make excuses, but he just shakes out a nervous smile and turns the radio back up.

  
  


x

  
  


The truck’s route takes the gang into the Monastery District of Garreg Mach, where the repetitive rows of little brick houses end up providing an easier sight on the eyes than the mess of jumbotrons and skyscrapers they were in just a few moments ago. The ever-growing marketplace of the city’s south side boasts the city’s densest population now, but the Monastery up north still holds its title as the cultural heart of Garreg Mach proudly. The centerpiece of it all is the old church, rising so incredibly high above the streets that surround it. It has stood here, time and time again through every fire and earthquake that has ravaged it.

What’s resting on the raised platform across from the church is the Goddess Tower, a structure so fortunate to have stood against every weather. Out of all buildings on Monastery grounds, the Tower draws the most attention from onlookers and tourists with a quarter to put in a binocular machine. Garreg Mach citizens and historical societies alike have invested great funds and effort into keeping this landmark from being battered and chipped away. What was once nothing more than an antique bell tower is now being used to house the continent’s most dangerous pop idols. It hasn’t rung in a long while.

Approaching the Goddess Tower, Blaiddyd pulls his truck into a series of sub-level gates and barriers. A small machine gives him the opportunity to scan an ID badge but he doesn’t. He doesn’t even need to roll down his window; a few seconds of stationary waiting is all it takes for each gate to open.

The short drive into the garage is eerily quiet and devoid of any life. Aside from the number of gifts and fan letters left outside at the outermost gate (Blaiddyd quickly explained it isn’t the Elites’ job to sort through those when Byleth pointed them out), there’s not a single security guard or crazed fan in sight. It’s all just a collection of well-maintained, solid gates that lead into an incredibly underwhelming parking lot. It’s barely the size of the average apartment complex garage. It takes a bit of rocking back and forth for Blaiddyd to squeeze his truck into the parking space reserved for him, neatly marked with his Crest in white paint. It’s a tight fit for a lot that isn’t even full. Edelgard and her crew step out of the truck and look around, only to realize that there’s still some unoccupied spaces, some even missing any sort of identifying mark.

A stairwell (Linhardt was expecting, possibly hoping for, an elevator) takes them all up to the lobby, where the realization that this tower is a lot larger than the outside had implied is now settling into the minds of the visitors here. Spread over the stone arches inside is a fresco depicting several figures engaged in some sort of ritual performance. In the center of their dance circle is a woman dressed in beads and fringed cloth. In her hands she holds a swaddled infant with green hair that matches her own. The paint seems to have lost some of its color and saturation with time, but it now serves to accentuate every vivid gold trim detail across these walls. The paintings stretch from the ceilings into every wall in sight, leading other rooms. Edelgard gestures to her camera crew to press record and capture all of it.

Blaiddyd leads the visitors through one of these stone arches and into a hearing chamber. Beneath a chandelier sits a neat circle of thirteen wooden armchairs, each ornately carved with unique designs and lined with velvet plush. Most of them are occupied.

Riegan is the first to say hello. He doesn’t look all too different from the ensemble he brought to Gloucester’s party, but now he’s wearing a much flashier pair of crocodile leather shoes. This time around, he doesn’t have a leather couch to sink into this time. He leans forward, hunching and letting his body rest against his elbows. His seat grows more uncomfortable by the second. Getting up and leaving is definitely an option in his playbook that he’s willing to run.

Goneril is here as well, now sporting a bright pink fur coat that looks like it might be larger than her body. She’s sitting on the part that extends down to her legs, possibly making her chair the softest and plushest in the room. She’s lazily scrolling through the notifications on her phone and it looks like she’ll be occupied with this task for as long as this meeting will continue. Caspar swivels the camera over to her, very quietly muttering questions to himself about what kind of animal produces such a hot pink coat. It’s a mystery he will never solve.

Daphnel has taken her seat. She’s ditched the grandeur of her lace-trimmed riding coat and now sits in a scrappy, vintage military jacket made with all sorts of dull fabrics. Even when pinching at her bridge to rest her tired eyes, she still looks just as handsome as ever. It looks like the costume isn’t the only thing she left at home: Fraldarius hasn’t bothered to show up today.

Dominic looks even smaller up close than she does on stage. Somewhere beneath her aura of radiant warmth and sunshine sits a sensation of placeable unease. The very notion of a round-table discussion is feeding her insatiable anxiety. The sweater she’s wearing is cashmere, filled with a bright, colorful rainbow of thick chevron stripes. It’s feeling rather itchy on her skin today. Nonetheless, she smiles and waves to the visitors, fiddling with a lock of her ginger hair against her other hand. It’s enough to make even Byleth grin back.

A polar opposite vibe comes from the massive man seated by the room entrance, decked out head-to-toe in solid black motor leathers. This is Lamine, recognizable anywhere from his stature and the horned helmet that rests upon his shoulders. Nobody has seen his face before, as if any of his fans or fellow gods are even brave enough to even attempt unmasking him. In the place of a clear face shield on any other motorcycle helmet is a glossy, full-face LED display of a dot-matrix skull, eerily flickering as it glows. The skeleton theme extends to his fingertips: shiny, chrome panels on his gloves divide his fingers into sections by individual phalanges. If there ever was an intruder in the Goddess Tower, there are the hands that would pick them up and tear them apart like paper scraps. It probably already happened before, actually. It almost happens backstage at every show he plays. He’s the reason why nobody has broken into the Goddess Tower yet.

Maurice. _Fucking_ Maurice. Her chair remains empty. Nobody ever sees much of her, not that it can’t be blamed. The public’s scrying eye has never been kind to her. She keeps divinity at a distance, never letting magic and miracles have a role in her artistic process. The world of the Elites is miles beyond her and nobody has ever skipped a beat giving her that reminder. 

Charon’s very presence is enough to leave even her fellow Elites star-struck. She was already an award-winning artist before assuming divinity and her fanbase has exponentially grown since. She embraces being the youngest of the group, having it reflected by the fun teen-goth style she’s decided to adopt. A thin, black veil mask wraps her mouth, held in place by a pair of circle wireframes with violet lenses. Her bright white hair sits as a stark contrast against a black, baggy shirt and pants combo garnished with rings and chains. She knows damn well she doesn’t really need to be here.

At the head of the room sits Rhea, dignified and unflappable from every angle. The weight of her crown has no strain on her neck. Her white robes hug the curves of her body and then extend down to the floor, pooling at her feet like the sweep train of a wedding dress. The skin on her face glows through its creases, attesting to a beauty that is not bound by time. Her voice is polyphonic in a way: somehow both dulcet and domineering at the same time.

“Gloucester is my child as all of the Elites are,” she addresses the visitors, “and I must thank you for looking after one of our own, especially for such a lonesome and troubled soul.”

She takes a deep breath and her eyes meet Edelgard’s.

“I’ve let you into our domain because I understand you have some doubts you would like to address.”

“If they can even be addressed at all,” Edelgard retorts.

“Your tongue is rightfully sharp,” Rhea lets her lips curl into a smile. “I have presided over the Pantheon of Elites for thousands of years. I embrace each incarnation as if they were of my own blood. These are my children, and they are bound to experience conflict as children always do.”

Half the room visibly winces. Rhea doesn’t seem to notice, let alone be bothered. She continues.

“But my children are divine. They have inherited the Crests of the Elites. They are granted powers that surpass humanity. They defy explanation.”

“I implore you to explain. You give them powers of the performing arts. Why must you also give them powers of destruction?” Edelgard looks into Rhea’s eyes, unsure of who, or what exactly is looking back.

“The abilities you speak of are not meant to be used on mortals or to be seen by the public eye. They are not of destruction, but of defense. Gloucester needs to be reprimanded for breaking such a rule.”

“And he was protecting mortals from danger, wasn’t he?” Goneril speaks up. “Isn’t that ok?”

“And of the judge?” Rhea turns to all of them. “All he could have protected was himself then.”

“That wasn’t his doing,” Riegan attests. “I was in that room. We were in that room. He put up a fight to let it be known.”

“Then it could have been any one of us,” all warmth drains from Rhea’s face. Nobody wants to look at each other.

“It’s true,” Riegan hunches further, letting his elbows dig deeper into his legs. He hides his face beneath his shades and hands.

“Gloucester is playing a game here,” Charon pipes up. “He shouldn’t be.”

“I could have done something,” Goneril doesn’t lift her head. “And I could have done it.”

A million words run through Dominic’s mind. She opens her mouth to say something but nothing comes out.

“It could have been anybody,” Blaiddyd keeps watch over the visitors from his chair. “Any of us. Even from light years away.”

Daphnel only stares at her fingers.

“I’ve done worse.” Lamine’s voice is deep and booming, bit-crushed by an electronic modulator within his helmet.

“Gloucester will die in a cell by the end of this Recurrence if we don’t figure this out,” Byleth takes a stand.

“For so it must be,” Rhea says. “Gloucester is one of the Pantheon. He is one of us. Let the world remind him that he must abide by our rules. It is only fair.”

Byleth thought they detected a hint of remorse in Rhea’s words, if only for a fraction of a second.

“That’s not fair,” Charon jumps in. “You took away the rest of his life just to let him rot in a cell.”

“Nothing is fair, my child.”

“Absolutely nothing. I’ll be dead before I’m twenty-one. Nothing.”

“Charon,” Rhea silences her.

“Look at you all,” Edelgard steps forward. Byleth reaches for her shoulder but is met with another step away. “There’s a killer amongst you and none of you are cooperating to figure out who it is, knowing it’s damn well one of you!”

No response. Nothing.

Edelgard huffs.

“You’ve all convinced me nobody else is even remotely capable of performing a spectacular, gorey miracle. You’re just circlejerking instead of coming to a conclusion. That’s what’s happening right now.”

Rhea lifts her hand. Her fingers extend instead of touching. Edelgard feels a need to keep her skull together even so.

“Tell Gloucester we love him,” Rhea concludes. Her hand sweeps, waving the guests off.

  
  


x

  
  


Gloucester sits in a cell. The air is colder, much more stale than it was merely days ago.

“It’s such a shame, isn’t it?” He leans back into his metal chair. “A part of me hoped Rhea was willing to share answers.”

“So then we’ll help you find answers,” Byleth says from the other side of the plexiglass.

“Such a task is insurmountable, my dear Professor. Divinity holds multitudes of mysteries. I don’t even know how much longer I have left in this world. I’ve had a calendar marked for moons but… to be entirely frank, none of us really know what’s certain.”

“It’s as humans do. That’s a human response to death.”

“I was human. I am a god. I am immortal, but I cannot live forever.”

“But you will live on.”

“Damn right, I will. But not from a cage.”

Gloucester takes a deep breath and counts four beats. He raises his arms and the shackles that bound his fingers slip away and fall to the concrete floor.

“Most importantly, I am a gentleman. I’ve done my waiting,” he says as he snaps his fingers. The security camera camera in the corner of the room combusts. “That’s all the courtesy I’m able to expend.”

Another snap busts a hole through a series of walls, clearing an exit towards the city sidewalk outside. Emergency alarms start whirring and fire sprinklers fill the room with a drizzle of water.

Gloucester beckons towards Byleth, now standing over their chair knocked aside on the floor.

“Come join me for a walk, Professor. I think the both of us need some fresh air, don’t we?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a troublesome chapter that was to write! I'm just frustrated by the fact that it took me two weeks to write this one and today I wrote the entirety of the next chapter in one sitting. That's how it goes, I guess. Thank you to my beta-readers for putting up with my shit.
> 
> The series playlist has been updated! [Click here for the Spotify link.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3rOqIB55VD8NAJlyZDR69e?si=LRk64WUSQQ-KhAPf4gsiEg)


	4. Instant Crush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"And we will never be alone again_   
>  _'Cause it doesn't happen everyday_   
>  _Kinda counted on you being a friend_   
>  _Kinda given up on giving away"_
> 
> \- Daft Punk

GUARDIAN MOON, 2014.

A row of riot policemen lie incapacitated on the ground. A deep, black haze hovers their air and drains every last one of them of their energy reserves. Their empty trucks are ablaze, scattered across every lane on the street and surrounded by a mass of onlookers snapping photos and standing by.

“They’re all alive, you haven’t a reason to worry at all,” Gloucester says, shaking off his fingers from a snap as if he just briefly laid his hand upon a burning stove. “I couldn’t possibly dare to have any more blood on my hands, really. That’s over with. I’ve learned my lesson.”

A part of Byleth is inclined to believe him wholeheartedly.

“Fuck if I know if any of that is true.” Looks like Edelgard and her crew has been trailing the Professor from just a few steps away.

“I don’t know what’s left for you to doubt, dear,” Gloucester welcomes her with open arms as she worms her way out of the crowd. Edelgard gladly keeps her distance.

“You’re delusional.” She tilts her head.

“I’m invincible!” He raises his arms higher, smiling.

“Not for much longer!” Riegan runs in from the other end of the street from an apparated cloud of smoke. “We need to have a word. A quick one.”

“Darling, you’re not here to tell me to get back in the slammer again, aren’t you?” Gloucester pouts mockingly. “I’ve no interest in going back and abiding by the rules if the Elites want nothing to do with me. It’s fair enough. I get it.”

“No, I’m not here to take you back. Quite the opposite actually. I’m here to tell you to go away.”

“Riegan!” He gasps dramatically. He was truly hoping that Riegan came here to plead on his knees and beg for a compromise, against the better judgement that such a response is highly unlikely to come.

“The worst thing you could possibly be doing right now is making a spectacle, and here you are. You need to lie low. _Now._ I have an idea, just lend me your time.”

The sky suddenly dims to grey and a deep rumble fills the district. Panic slowly begins to set within the street crowd. Riegan shrugs, throwing his hands up in defeat. Gloucester steps back in anticipation.

“That wasn’t an earthquake, wasn’t it?” Edelgard gestures at her camera crew to keep rolling and turns to Byleth.

The ground beneath their feet is as still and steadfast as can be.

“No,” they answer. “That was thunder, I think.”

Just then, lightning strikes down from the sky. Bolts pool into the street as a figure emerges, swiftly dashing forward to hold Gloucester by the throat where he stands.

“I’m sorry,” Blaiddyd says to him as visible sparks of electricity flow down from his canvas jacket like drops of condensation. He grips Gloucester in a rubber work glove, holding him up and letting him dangle an inch off the ground. Gloucester gasps, clawing at the fingers on his neck to no avail.

“Fuck. See, here we go.” Riegan slices the air with his hand, sending a gentle gust of wind towards Byleth and Edelgard’s crew. It’s not enough to knock them off their feet but they stagger backwards, several steps into a safer distance. Riegan then snaps forward, sending a much more powerful gale to hit the pocket of space in between Blaiddyd and Gloucester. They’re hit with an audible boom and are sent skidding violently against the pavement from the impact zone.

Edelgard is speechless.

Caspar and Linhardt check to see if their camera lens is shattered. That shit’s expensive.

Byleth puts one foot forward.

Riegan has already disappeared, muttering frustrated swears into a puff of smoke.

“Ah, wonderful! Rhea sent a lapdog!” Gloucester wipes the dirt off his clothes and takes the back of his hand to a scrape on his face. It draws blood. “What’s my bounty? What’s your pay?”

“It’s nothing of the sort!” Blaiddyd shouts back, bringing himself back up to his knees just so he could get his hat back.

“If she truly wanted me dead, she would have sent Lamine. It’s as simple as that. Tell me why she let me stew in a cell all this time! Tell me what she’s planning!”

“I can’t answer that! I don’t know how to answer that!”

“I don’t want to hurt you! Truly!”

Blaiddyd forms a fist. A rumble fills the street.

“But fuck, take me out!” Gloucester counts to four and sends out a fireball in Blaiddyd’s direction. It fails to phase him; Blaiddyd only continues to dash forwards until he has Gloucester pinned against a brick wall by the shoulder.

  
  


x

  
  


The nearest subway station was on a far corner two blocks away. Byleth made easy work of the descending stairs while Edelgard followed in pursuit. She had already instructed Caspar and Linhardt to stay on the scene capturing every bit of that awful, flashy fight. That kind of footage makes great royalty money as it does research material.

Byleth swipes their fare card and pushes through in one incredibly fluid motion.

Edelgard takes two hops to vault a turnstile.

“You’re thinking a cleanup crew from the Underground is going to make any difference?” she asks as they both run down to the end of the platform. The station seems to be almost empty. Looks like people have gotten wind of the celebrity showdown going on upstairs. Byleth responds by jumping down onto the tracks.

“There’s two clowns already duking it out upstairs. I’m not sure if it’s wise to try adding a third party.”

No response from Byleth. There’s a light at the end of the tunnel.

“...Professor? I hope this isn’t just for the sake of diving into another tunnel.”

Something speeds down the tracks. The light approaches.

“Oh fuck, Byleth!” Edelgard hops down and grabs Byleth by the sleeve before being met face-to-face with a radiantly bright horse, whinnying as it stops and lifts its hooves up in the air. Daphnel is saddled on its back, sitting upright betwixt a pair of folded feathered wings.

Oh, shit. This isn’t just a horse.

“Pegasus...” Byleth mutters, staring the creature directly in the eye. It snorts back.

“You’re not a train.” Edelgard turns to Daphnel high atop the beast.

“I’m not,” Daphnel answers frankly. “I need to stop hanging out down here. Makes for a bad image if people are constantly jumping off the platforms for me.”

“We’d hate to beg for your help but it’s urgent.” Byleth turns up from the pegasus.

“Figured. You got me at a good time. It’s Blaiddyd, isn’t it?”

“Right.”

“Thought so. Shit.” Daphnel scoots up and pats the back end of the saddle. “Ride with me. I think I know what to do.”

  
  


x

  
  


Gloucester was about to be on the receiving end of a right hook before he got sidelined and swept aside by an incoming outstretched wing. He finds himself on the ground again, bleeding from the face. A feather made its way into his mouth. He tries to spit it out but it ends up expelled with a hearty cough instead. Byleth and Edelgard dismount and make their way towards his side.

The battle was turning in Blaiddyd’s favor right before he was trampled by a flying horse that seemingly flew out of nowhere, like the rest of Garreg Mach’s pigeon population. Now he’s battered, bruised, and pinned down by a hoof. He lifts his hand to snap it all away but is met with Daphnel’s face peering out and over from atop the mount.

“Hey.” He sighs and lets his hand drop. It hits the road with a thud. He balls up his fist and gives the asphalt a couple of extra hits with feeling.

“Hey.” Daphnel looks down upon him.

“Sorry.” He unclenches.

“Stop being sorry. You’re always fucking sorry. Whatever it was, it wasn’t worth it.”

He turns his head away and continues to lie there.

“This is the last time.” Daphel pulls back. She dismounts, extending a hand towards him. He doesn’t take it. That’s not a problem. He doesn’t fight back when she effortlessly lifts his body and hauls him onto the pegasus. He’s got nothing left to say.

“We’re done here,” she calls out to the group on Gloucester’s end. “I think you guys have something to sort out with your other friend.”

She snaps and white doves come flying forth, swarming the street and reducing nearly all visibility. They join in formation, flocking and flying in one direction. There seems to be no end to them.

“Get up. I think we’re meant to follow them.” Byleth gently holds Gloucester and tries to bring him back up to his feet.

“I’m tired of this feathered bullshit.” He finds his footing and follows the doves, letting the rest follow while watching his back. Several steps forward and the doves fade into a beam of light, bridging the gap between this world and the next.

  
  


x

  
  


The last of the birds dissipate and the light leads them through a wooden doorway and into an old city townhouse’s living room. A thick, clear layer of plastic wrap is tightly fitted around every sofa and armchair. The spines of old books line the walls, completing rows and rows of various world encyclopedias. Sconces hung on the art deco-patterned walls illuminate the room in warm shades of yellow. All sorts of souvenirs and baubles fill every shelf and surface, leaving barely enough space for a tea saucer to be set down. The window curtains are drawn completely shut, keeping the outside away from looking in. Atop the fireplace sits a large LED television-- the idea that someone hasn’t been living in this house for decades upon decades has now been tossed aside as a possibility.

The gang is met with Riegan, restless from pacing the creaky floors.

“Good. You’re here,” he sighs. “There’s something that went well.”

The fire returns to Gloucester’s eyes.

“Fucking hell, Riegan!” He hasn’t quite burst into literal flames just yet but he feels himself burning up. “You scoundrel! You strike one blow and come running home!”

“Listen, I’m not thinking about making the safest decision for myself,” Riegan fights back, “I’m trying to act out on what’s best for the both of us. I’m helping you out but I’m not going to make an enemy of Blaiddyd by directly throwing down with him. That’s not in our best interests at all.”

“You ran away! You ran away without telling me!”

“We need access to the Underground. It’s your best shot at freedom and I’m not going to compromise that chance by beating up its King.”

“And then what? I’ve no freedom in hell. I’m not spending whatever time I’ve got left in a damp tunnel.”

“You have time. We can figure it out together.”

“There’s never enough time. It’s my fault. I fucked it all up. I fucked everything up.”

“So you unfuck it. _We_ unfuck it.”

“I need a cigarette.” Gloucester turns around once the hint of tears start to well in his eyes. He steps towards the entrance hallway.

“No you don’t.” Riegan pushes his shades up his nose.

“It’s not killing me any faster than my Crest is.” Gloucester shrugs, slipping a pack out of his interior pocket. He lights one stick with a snap as he turns the doorknob with his other hand.

It all happens in a blur.

The door opens.

Rhea waits at the welcome mat, hand in the air. Her thumb and middle finger meet.

She’s not supposed to be here.

“Fuck!!” Riegan rushes down to the entrance, screaming at the top of his lungs. “Don’t!!”

“You.” The cigarette slips from Gloucester’s mouth.

“I love you, Gloucester,” Rhea looks into his eyes with every sense of guilt and remorse. “I’m sorry.”

Snap.

His head lights up in sparks. It takes only the sliver of a second for it all to turn into a great ball of light and color. It burns and torches his flesh, surpassing the intensity of the flames he came into this world from. There is no sound. He has no mouth to scream from. He is ignited and dissolved like a defect in a fireworks show, fizzling out into a pathetic flash of embers and never making it towards the great sky. It is over just as it starts.

Riegan’s vision goes black. It feels like it’s nothing but black for the next few minutes. He finds himself on the sidewalk, unable to make a sound and unable to hear anything. He cradles what’s left of Gloucester in his arms: a body going cold and a bloodied stump left at the neck. That’s absolutely it, save for the smear of blood running down the stairs and into the pavement where it meets Riegan at his hands and jacket. It was a clean job.

Byleth follows. They step through the pool of red gathering past the threshold to lay a hand on Riegan’s shoulder. It’s hard to look at it all, between Gloucester’s spurting neck and Riegan choking and sputtering on his grief. No words find their way out. Their hand lays steady.

Edelgard and her crew saw it happen, possibly even captured it on film as Caspar still held the camera upright on his shoulder and never pressed a button to stop rolling until he sat down. Edelgard is dreading scrubbing through that footage. She already saw it happen. She saw it happen several times throughout the month. She doesn’t need to see it again. She can only focus on letting her attention wander throughout Riegan’s collection of knick-knacks in the living room. She can’t bring herself to leave the couch.

Rhea has had her face buried in her hands this entire time. She can’t look at this. She’s seen this over the span of several lifetimes. It hasn’t gotten any harder, but it hasn’t gotten any easier either. She steps through the door, lifting her white robes so as not to soak them in the red pool below.

“Young boy with the camera,” she beckons to Caspar. “I wish to speak.”

He gets up from the couch and presses record. Linhardt follows suit, running a cable through a microphone. He offers it to Rhea but she doesn’t take it. He holds it in front of her himself.

“I am called Rhea. I have been the guardian of the Elites for many a millennia. I welcome each incarnation as my own dear children, and as such I have assumed responsibility for all their safety. For their power. For their secrets.”

She takes a deep breath before continuing.

“And it is my responsibility to prevent a disaster such as this. It is my duty and the duty of the divine because it surpasses the power of mortals. We can only hold accountability for our own and our own alone.”

She looks into the lens intently.

“You are afraid. You have every right to be afraid but it isn’t my role to tell you to abandon the world of the gods. They exist to seek your devotion.”

She holds up her hand. Caspar presses a button and the recording ends.

“Leave us be. We must mourn.”

She turns and leaves the scene on the street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh my god i forgot i wrote this chapter
> 
> ANYWAYS thank you for sticking around! This chapter is the end of this arc. What a great note to end on! There's gonna be a significant delay between this chapter and the next, somewhere between one and two weeks. Been busy being back to work full time and there's a non-Let It Die fic I wanna be able to put up beforehand just for the sake of doing so. File your complaints at @shenyun5000 on Twitter!
> 
> The series playlist has been updated! Again! [Click here for the Spotify link.](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3rOqIB55VD8NAJlyZDR69e?si=LRk64WUSQQ-KhAPf4gsiEg)


End file.
